


to anyone who might care

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26942326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: spencer makes friends with the cat that keeps showing up at his door(or, spencer is struggling post-revelations and reader’s cat is a good friend)
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 113





	to anyone who might care

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii

Spencer meets _the cat_ for the first time on a Tuesday night. She lazily peers up at him when he pushes open the door, swishing her fluffy tail back and forth as her golden eyes take in his unkempt hair and sickly pallor and shaking hands -

It feels like she’s judging him, like she knows where he’s going and what he’s going to do the instant he gets back home (if he can even wait that long - the case went almost a week longer than expected and he underestimated how quickly his tolerance is building up and that means _I’m out I’m out, shit! - I’m out!_ ). He wants to escape her scrutiny even though she can’t possibly _know_ , can she? _She’s just a cat_ , he thinks, _just walk past her and go get your fix. Animals don’t like you anyway._

So he carefully steps around her, mindful of her stretched out legs and sweeping tail - she looks so relaxed lying there in the hall, like nothing matters except being pet and fed and whatever else cats do. It almost makes Spencer wish he were a cat - for a second he fantasizes about lying in bed and watching Doctor Who, sipping sugary coffee and snacking on pretzels and Rice Krispy treats -

And then chills run up his spine - he thinks about how the puffed rice and corn syrup and malt flavoring felt churning around in his stomach as he sat in _the shed_ with a single lightbulb flickering above his head and fish livers burning in the corner. He hears _choose one to die_ and _it’s god’s will_ and _confess, boy!_ echoing in his ears and he remembers - nothing is safe now. 

Nothing is safe now except clear liquid encased in pretty little glass vials and sterile syringes and arms bruised black and blue from injecting the same spots over and over and over - maybe _safe_ isn’t the right word for that either (it definitely isn’t), but it’s the only thing that comes close anymore. The rush of euphoria and the lingering high let him feel like he can breathe again, if only for a little while.

And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? It only lasts for _a little while_ , and then he’s thrown right back into the dread constantly squeezing his chest and Tobias’ ghost flickering before his eyes and _I know what they were feeling, like, right before._ He’s _tried_ to escape the cycle, but it feels like it’s too late - he’s physically dependent now and everything is ten times worse when he doesn’t listen to the itch under his skin and give in. He comes crawling back every time begging for mercy, telling himself _just a little bit to take the edge off, just one last time won’t hurt_ even though he’s already thinking about calling up his dealer to arrange another drop.

He just doesn’t have the strength to fight it right now, so he’s slinking out of his apartment at 10:53 on a Tuesday night to try and score, taking a huge risk because his usual dealer isn’t available and he’s visibly strung out. He’s not about to abandon his plans of getting high just because he feels like the cat is judging him - he _needs_ this more than he’s ever needed anything else before and some stranger’s cat isn’t going to stop him.

(She’s still there when he gets back, desperately clutching a little glass vial he can only hope is filled with what he paid for. Spencer hurries past her into his apartment, practically slamming the door and pointedly ignoring her presence. He sinks down against the barrier, trembling from the early stages of withdrawal and the force of every terrible memory that’s hitting him all at once. His eyes clamp shut as he tries to block it out, tries to make it stop - it only makes it worse. He sees _dad leaving_ and _the football team_ and _mom crying as they drag her away_ and _Tobias_ -

Spencer shoots up right there without a second thought, pretending he’s not ashamed because at least _all of that_ has settled down for now)

…

It seems like _the cat_ is always there, lingering outside his apartment and watching as he comes and goes, sometimes for work or errands and sometimes for… _other things_. She sneaks inside one night and he can’t get her to leave, no matter how much he tries to herd her back out into the hall. Spencer starts calling her Stella because…well, because ‘the cat’ feels a little too impersonal at this point - he’s seen her every day for the past couple weeks and now she’s apparently decided to take up residence in his apartment.

Stella starts circling around his feet and meowing around dinner time (or, what would be dinner time if he had any intention of actually eating anything). Spencer begrudgingly scours his pantry for anything he can give her, eventually digging up some canned chicken he decides will be good enough for tonight at least. He cracks open the can and places it down on the floor next to a bowl of water, arranging them just so and watching as Stella happily laps at the food, only recoiling a little bit at the slimy noises she makes while eating. 

She peers up at him once she’s done, tilting her head to the side as if to ask _aren’t you going to eat too?_ and padding forward to brush her fluffy head against his legs and his sides and his hands. Spencer starts petting her on instinct, running his fingers through her long, perfectly soft fur, feeling her contented purring rumble through his palms. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation, something close to calmness washing over him right there on the kitchen floor.

He chokes down a few stale crackers and curls up on the couch - Stella follows him, jumping up onto the couch next to him and pressing herself into his side. It makes him feel better for a little while at least, which is more than he can say for anything else he’s tried (other than _you know what_ , of course)

At the end of the night Spencer drags himself up off of the couch and stumbles over to the bedroom, his skin crawling as his brain begs him for another fix - Stella follows him, but he carefully inches the door open and slips inside without giving her a chance to get through. Maybe she’s just a cat, but he really doesn’t want her to see what he’s about to do.

…

Stella slips out after him when he leaves for work in the morning, so as long as he’s careful he should be able to keep her out in the hall from now on. She’s obviously not a stray, which means she must have an owner who feeds her on a regular basis - there’s really no reason for Spencer to be stopping by the grocery store on his way home and comparing brands of cat food. 

He’s honestly pretty strapped for cash right now, what with funding a high-end drug habit and all, so he grabs a bag of dry food that’s on the cheaper side and calls it _good enough_ \- it’s not like she’ll be eating it every day, after all. It’s just in case she sneaks into his apartment again and he doesn’t have anything else to feed her. It probably won’t even happen again, Spencer just likes to be prepared. That’s all.

Stella’s curled up in front of his door when he gets back home, as usual - she perks up as soon as she sees him, padding over and sniffing the grocery bag. Spencer can’t help but reach down and pet her, smoothing his hand over her fluffy head and down the length of her back. He almost wants to let her in and see if she likes the food, but _the itch_ is making itself known in the back of his brain and nagging him to stick to the routine he’s fallen into - he’d really rather not have a witness for when he has to _take care of it._

He slips inside and presses his back against the door, leaning his head back and clenching his eyes shut - he _hates_ that this is what his life is now, that he can’t hold it together without the drugs (that he can’t hold it together _with_ them, either). His breathing picks up as he thinks about it, thinks about losing his job and his friends (and his life), thinks about his mom and how disappointed she would be if she knew - he _knows_ that he can’t do this forever, but panics at the mere thought of stopping and getting clean. How the _fuck_ is he supposed to actually do it if he can’t even _think_ about it without -

The sound of someone screaming echoes in his ears and it takes him almost a minute to realize it’s _him_ , that the vibrations he can feel tickling his throat mean that he’s producing some kind of sound. He screams and screams and screams, trying desperately to release his frustration and anger and pain and fear, screaming some more when he realizes it’s _not working_ \- he claws at his ears because it’s too loud and he _knows_ that all the noise is coming from him, but he just can’t seem to make himself stop.

The screams melt into sobs when everything starts to hurt too much (though if he’s being honest, it _always_ hurts too much now). It takes all of the energy left in his meager form to drop the groceries and drag himself over to the couch, still sobbing and holding his satchel in front of his body as if it can protect him from the world. Tears blur his vision as he digs through his things, pushing aside files and papers and loose pens until his hand closes around cool glass - his movements are frantic as he practically tears it out of the bag, scrambling for a syringe and pulling his belt tight around his left bicep. 

He draws back just a little bit more than the last time, hands trembling with both fear and anticipation as he lines up the needle and pushes down the plunger - a shaky exhale escapes his lips as he waits for the hydromorphone to circulate through his system. He waits and waits and waits for the relief that only half-comes, reaching up to pull at his hair once he realizes it’s not _working_ like it did those first few times (it hasn’t been for a while now, however much he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen into the trap of chasing a high that’ll _never_ be as good as the first time)

The prospect of filling the syringe again and shooting up for the second time within fifteen minutes is so, _so_ tempting. He almost doesn’t _care_ that it would probably kill him, almost wants to just get this life thing over with because what good has it done him anyway? He finally thought things were getting better after a lifetime of dealing with a sick mom, and a dad who didn’t love him enough to stay, and peers who laughed as he struggled against the ropes keeping him suspended a foot above the ground under the hot Nevada sun -

He finally thought things were getting better, and then he made the stupid, _stupid_ decision to split up with JJ and where did that get him? _They don’t even care_ , Spencer thinks, _they haven’t offered to help, they left me alone. I’m too much for them and they hate me for snapping at them, and they hate me for almost getting JJ killed, and they hate me because I can’t just shut the_ fuck _up like a good little encyclopedia. They hate me, they hate me, they_ must _hate me because why else would they have left me all alone?_

And Spencer’s about to do it, about to _end it_ , when he hears something scratching at the door - and then he starts to cry again because he knows it’s Stella and he just bought food for her and _what if I never get to see her again?_

Suddenly he’s scrambling for the door, swaying and tripping over his feet as his vision swims, grabbing for the handle _one two three_ times before he finally manages to get it open. Stella dashes inside as soon as he cracks open the door, meowing and pressing herself into his legs as he sinks down to the floor. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her fur, shaking his head and whispering, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t - I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

And she starts grooming him, her rough tongue glides across his bruised arms and pallid face - maybe he should find it a little gross, should be a little freaked out by all the germs, but it just feels _so good_ because he knows it means she cares. He didn’t realize just how much he was waiting for that, for someone to show that they care. Sobs wrack through his thin frame because he doesn’t know how to feel - the first time he’s felt loved in _months_ is from a cat he met a few weeks ago, not from one of the many people he considers close friends. Stella just cuddles closer, laying herself over his long legs and tucking her head into his belly as Spencer continues to run his hands through her soft fur, trying to find some comfort in a world that doesn’t make sense anymore.

(Her affection doesn’t stop the craving, doesn’t stop his body and mind’s demand for more - he shuts her out of the bedroom as he injects another dose just before it’s time to sleep, or to make an attempt at least. But he lets her in afterwards and she crawls into bed beside him as he curls up under the covers, waiting the short few minutes it takes for the high to reach its peak. 

She lays herself over his chest sometime in the night, and the pressure lulls him back to sleep every time he jolts awake, trying to fight off an adversary who’s no longer there. It’s far from restful, but it’s the closest he’s gotten to a good night’s sleep since _it_ happened and there’s a split second in the morning where he thinks _everything’s gonna be okay._ And maybe it only lasts for that split second, but it’s so much better than not feeling it at all)

…

Stella leaves in the morning and comes back at night, waiting patiently outside Spencer’s door as he unlocks it and ushers her inside. He pours her a bowl of food and then sneaks off while she’s distracted, locking himself in the bathroom and preparing his afternoon fix, trying desperately not to let the dose keep creeping higher and higher and higher. It puts him out of commission for long enough that Stella comes scratching at the bathroom door, meowing at him, begging him to let her inside.

Spencer squirms on the tile floor, wrapping his arms around his belly as the shame washes over him just like he knew it would - he doesn’t want her to see him like this, but he also craves the comfort she brings, her soft fur and steady purring. It takes him a minute to muster up the energy to reach up and open the door - Stella darts inside as soon as he does, curling up in his lap and running her sandpaper tongue over the crooks of his arms, unafraid of angry red injection sites and blown veins. 

The weight of her body on top of his is easy to focus on, as is the now-familiar feeling of her fur beneath his hands. Spencer leans his head back and closes his eyes, no longer weary of the animal like he once was, losing himself to the drug circulating through his veins and the warmth of the cat splayed across his legs. When he blinks his eyes open once again, she’s peering up at him with those golden eyes, tilting her head to the side as if to ask _hey human, are you okay?_

He’s pretty sure she already knows the answer but he tells her anyway, shakes his head back and forth and back and forth and says, “No, no I’m not. I _know_ I can’t keep doing this, I _know_ it’s not helping anymore a-and maybe it never was in the first place, but I just don’t know how to stop. I-I don’t know how to stop, Stella, I don’t know how to _stop._ ”

It feels really good to say that out loud, to admit that he’s lost control of the situation and that he doesn’t know what to do anymore. It’s not a solution, not even close, but at least he’s not in denial anymore. At least he’s not still pretending that _it’s not a big deal, I can stop whenever I want to, I’m not…I’m not addicted_ because those things are _clearly_ not true. 

(He goes to sleep that night with Stella on his chest, still reeling from the hit he took before bed, feeling guilty about it because he didn’t want it, not really, but took it anyway because he didn’t know what else to do. 

He’s afraid of withdrawal and afraid of the things he’s been using the drugs to suppress, and he’s not so sure he’s ready to face them just yet. And he _knows_ that he has to let go eventually, that the longer he waits the harder it’ll be, that he’s risking an overdose with every hit, that long-term opioid abuse can cause psychosis and serious organ damage. Spencer knows _all of that_ \- it’s been running through his mind since the first time he dosed himself - but admitting to the problem and actually doing anything about it are two very different things)

…

Spencer comes home from a case drop-dead exhausted and craving to all hell - it’s nearly impossible to sleep without the familiar weight of Stella on his chest and the soft lull of her breathing. He’s looking forward to being reunited with her, to burying his hands in her fur and hearing her purr and watching her fluffy tail swish back and forth -

Stella’s not there when he gets home and it sends a jolt of panic through his slight frame, jolting him back awake as his heart starts to race - _nonono she can’t be gone, she can’t be!_ He doesn’t even want to unlock the door without her there, doesn’t want to be stuck in his apartment alone all night with all the scary thoughts and memories he just _can’t_ push down -

The door to the apartment at the end of the hall clicks open and someone’s voice echoes out, saying, “Awe I love you too, Scout - we’re just gonna go check and see if the man is back yet, okay?”

And then Stella comes darting over to him, circling around his feet like she always does - Spencer crouches down to run a hand over her back, still a little shaky from the adrenaline rush but feeling much calmer now that he knows she’s alright. He’s so preoccupied with Stella that he doesn’t notice the person walking up to him until she’s crouching down beside him - she just sits there with him, letting him get used to her presence as he runs his fingers through Stella’s long fur. “Are you Stella’s owner?” he says eventually, keeping his gaze focused on the cat instead of looking up at his neighbor.

“Stella?” she replies, tilting her head to the side in the same way Stella does.

Spencer blushes glancing up at his neighbor for a second before looking back down at Stella, “I-I mean…well, I didn’t want to just keep calling her ‘the cat,’ so I…I started calling her ‘Stella’ because…I don’t know - i-it seemed like a good name, I guess. You, um, you called her ‘Scout’ just then, didn’t you? I-I can call her that instead, I didn’t mean to -”

“No, it’s okay,” she smiles, “I don’t mind, you can call her whatever you like.”

“O-okay, um - thanks, I guess,” he replies, “Um…I’m Spencer, by the way.”

“I’m (y/n),” she says, pausing for a second before continuing, “Just so you don’t have to make up a name for _me_ too.”

Spencer looks up at her, worried for a second that she actually is mad about him naming her cat. But (y/n) doesn’t look mad at all - she’s biting her bottom lip and holding back a chuckle. It makes him chuckle too and the sound surprises him as it escapes his lips - he hasn’t laughed since…well, since _before._ The three of them settle into a comfortable silence out in front of Spencer’s apartment, the two humans running gentle hands over Stella’s back and the cat soaking in the attention.

“Don’t you miss her when she’s…when she’s with me?” Spencer breaks the silence eventually, the words tentative and soft as he averts his gaze, worrying at his lip.

“Of course I do,” (y/n) replies, her honestly shocking him a little, “But I…y-you seemed like you needed a friend and…well, Scout’s - _Stella’s_ good at that. Being a friend, I mean.”

He breath hitches as he thinks about that, thinks about how much having Stella around helps (thinks about what might have happened if she hadn’t been there _that day_ ). And he starts to cry, tears dripping down his face and landing in Stella’s fur - she starts grooming his arms just like she always does, albeit over his shirt this time, and it only makes him cry harder, ugly sobs wracking through his frame as he curls into himself from the force of it all. He feels (y/n) close her hands around his and guide his palm back to Stella’s side - she helps him stroke up and down and up and down. 

Her fur is so soft and it feels so nice against his hands - Spencer continues on his own, clenching his eyes shut and focusing on Stella’s fur and Stella’s purring and the lull of Stella’s breathing. It brings him back to Earth after a while ( _quite_ a while, if (y/n)’s furrowed brow is any indication), and he just barely manages to whisper, “Thank you,” before his voice is gone and he can’t speak anymore.

He’s vaguely aware of (y/n) digging around in his bag for his keys. He hears the distinct _clink!_ of glass on glass, but can’t bring himself to care right now. (y/n) doesn’t say anything either - now’s not the time - just gently pulls him to his feet and guides him over to the couch. A weight settles over his lap and he knows it’s Stella, instinctively brings his hands up to pull her closer and thread his fingers through her fur.

Things aren’t okay right now, not even close, but there on the couch with Stella splayed over his lap and (y/n) by his side, Spencer thinks _maybe one day, things will be._


End file.
